" "For a bit of kindness?" Ruth was plainly bewildered. She tipped his mouth towards her own and kissed him. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. But you, Ferringhall, our pattern, an erstwhile Sheriff of London, a county magistrate, a prospective politician, a sober and an upright man, one who, had he aspired to it, might even have filled the glorious position of Lord Mayor— James, a whisky and Apollinaris at once. Ruth, without suspecting it, had fallen upon a fundamental truth: that each and every book fitted into the scheme of human moods and intelligence.
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